


an itch so slight

by myrmidryad



Series: show me something new [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dominant Grantaire, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Submissive Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lace emerges from the plastic bag. Enjolras stares as Grantaire unfolds and holds up a pair of black, lacy panties that are most definitely not intended for people with dicks. “Just an idea,” Grantaire says again, casual as anything, and a jolt of heat goes through Enjolras as he finally connects the dots – Grantaire’s proposing that he <i>wear</i> them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an itch so slight

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Dust On The Ground](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPgetSbJ8II) by Bombay Bicycle Club.

“When’s your cleaning day this month?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras pauses in the act of pulling on his pyjama bottoms.

“How do you know I haven’t already had it?” More to the point, how does Grantaire even know about his cleaning day? Once a month, Enjolras finds a day to properly clean his apartment. More than a quick hoover and tidy – he checks for limescale and mould, dusts every surface, wipes down the oven and fridge, moves the furniture around to clean underneath, even cleans the insides of the cupboards if there’s time.

Regular maintenance is better in the long-term than the occasional blitz. And besides, he finds the cleaning therapeutic. It’s nice to see concrete evidence of his labour.

Grantaire just shrugs, sprawled out across Enjolras’ bed as though he owns it. “I notice it when you’ve done it.”

Enjolras considers that as he gets into bed, pushing Grantaire across to force him to make room. “Next Friday. Why?”

Grantaire flicks the light off and waits. Enjolras obliges and curls against his side, pushing down thoughts of how very domestic this is. “I had an idea, that’s all. It’s a surprise,” he adds, and guilt flashes through Enjolras’ chest. He’s apologised again (and again, and again) for the horrible things he said about Grantaire’s gifts before he realised they were from him, and Grantaire has forbidden him from saying sorry in relation to the incident. It doesn’t help him forget.

There are several half-formed ideas in his head for making it up to Grantaire in some way, but somehow he always finds other things to do.

“What sort of surprise?” he asks after a moment. Grantaire’s hand finds his hair, and Enjolras suppresses a sigh of pleasure when he starts to push his fingers through it, nails scratching against Enjolras’ scalp. He knows not to be gentle, even with petting.

“A potential surprise. Depends on stuff.” Grantaire shifts, sighs, settles. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll leave or just hang around and annoy you.”

“You could help,” Enjolras says archly, then reconsiders. “Wait, don’t help. I don’t know what your standards are like.”

Grantaire laughs, chest jumping against Enjolras’ side. “They’re low, so I’ll do you a favour and stay well away. You’ll start on Friday morning?”

“By ten.”

“I’ll come over.” It’s not a question. Presumptuous, but Enjolras finds he doesn’t care. Either he’s too tired, or Grantaire’s become too much of a fixture in his life.

How much is too much?

Enjolras presses into the drag of Grantaire’s nails and relaxes, so much warmer with Grantaire’s body against his than he would normally be. It’s a problem that can be left for another time, he decides, too sleepy to keep forcing his mind in circles.

On Friday, he’s just finished dusting and wiping down the surfaces in his room (and when he says all surfaces, he means it – photo frames, light switches, and door handles are all included in the monthly sweep) when Grantaire knocks. He never knocks the same way twice in a row. This time it’s a tapping staccato beat, less obnoxious than usual.

It’s only when he opens it and Grantaire’s eyes jump to his hair, a laugh bubbling up from his stomach, that he remembers he’s wearing his rainbow bandana. “Shut up, it keeps my hair out of my face.”

Grantaire leans forward to kiss him, a quick press of lips to lips. It’s such a shock to have this gesture performed as an act on its own instead of as foreplay that Enjolras is still for a moment, arrested as Grantaire slips past him into the apartment. It takes him two full seconds to close the door and follow. “You said something about a surprise, I think?”

“It’s just an idea.” Grantaire dumps his backpack on the ground and sits back on the sofa, legs spread wide. “And it’s cool if you’re not into it – I’ve got a book, I can read and ogle you, no problem.”

“I’m on the clock here,” Enjolras reminds him. It makes Grantaire smirk, as he knew it would, and a plastic bag emerges from the backpack.

Lace emerges from the plastic bag. Enjolras stares as Grantaire unfolds and holds up a pair of black, lacy panties that are most definitely not intended for people with dicks. “Just an idea,” Grantaire says again, casual as anything, and a jolt of heat goes through Enjolras as he finally connects the dots – Grantaire’s proposing that he _wear_ them.

His teeth sink into his lower lip hard enough to momentarily distract him from the way his knees have turned to water. Grantaire sees and grins. “There’s a bra that goes with them, you know.”

Oh _God_. Enjolras barely holds back a whimper. The idea of wearing those ridiculously small panties…and the bra Grantaire pulls out next is in matching black lace, no wire, just fabric and straps and a bit of frilly edging. _Fuck_.

“You could wear them under your normal clothes,” Grantaire suggests, still flippant, shrugging as though it doesn’t matter to him either way. Somehow that just makes it even hotter, and Enjolras is suddenly very aware of how warm his face is. He never blushes so much when Grantaire’s not there to provoke him like this.

Grantaire balls the bra and pants up and throws them over, and Enjolras barely reacts in time to catch them. The lace is soft against his hands, not scratchy as he’d thought, and he’s pretty sure he’s getting hard just at the _thought_ of wearing these, which is wrong on so many different levels his mind is spinning just to try and categorise them all. He clears his throat and starts for the bedroom. “I need to finish…my cloth, it’s…” Grantaire laughs, and heat flares in Enjolras’ cheeks and stomach at the same time as he slips out of sight, breathing shallow and hands trembling.

This has to be a joke, some mockery of Grantaire’s designed to make him feel like a fool. In the living room, Grantaire starts to whistle a tune, and Enjolras has a sudden vision of himself wearing nothing but this underwear, cleaning the room while Grantaire watches and whistles and reaches out to slap and pinch and stroke every time Enjolras gets close enough.

It’s simultaneously the most embarrassing and arousing mental image that’s ever crossed his mind, and Enjolras has to lay the lingerie on the bed (freshly made, sheets laundered yesterday) and cover his mouth with one hand. Grantaire saw these and thought of him. Grantaire got these specifically for him, for him to wear. To wear _while he cleans_ , he realises – Grantaire planned this for today. Grantaire really thought about this, and it’s something about the combination of that with the possibility of actually wearing these scraps of lace that makes Enjolras close his eyes and mouth several expletives.

He picks up the bra and rubs the material between his fingers and thumb, head spinning. He _can’t_ put this on. It’s degrading, shameful…Grantaire will tease him, and rightly so. His thoughts run into overdrive, reminding him that lots of people indulge in this sort of thing, that women regularly wear items of clothing like this, that he’s just being backwards and repressed and intolerant. Warring with those rational thoughts are the inherent feelings coursing through him, the conflict of shocked embarrassment with intense arousal.

But he _can’t_ wear them. He’s doesn’t begrudge people their pleasures, but he’s not the sort of person who wears lingerie. He’s not the sort of person who lets himself be debased like this, objectified and taunted as though he has no self-respect or dignity.

But then just thinking about Grantaire gagging him makes him shiver. And the things he pushes Grantaire to do to him, holding him down and shoving him around and _using_ him…this is really just an extension of that, isn’t it? A continuation of the things he provokes Grantaire into doing. Asks for without actually asking. So has he asked for this?

He places the bra back on the bed and hesitates before unbuttoning his jeans, screaming internally because _what is he doing?_ He should’ve dismissed this charade as soon as Grantaire pulled the plastic bag out. He should go back in there and throw the underwear back in Grantaire’s face and tell him to get out. But instead, he just pushes his jeans down, knees still a little weak. Grantaire threw these at him. He wants Enjolras to wear them. And knowing that he’s doing what Grantaire wants, following a sort of unspoken order, should make him feel degraded, even insulted. Instead, his stomach is fluttering with anticipation, a sort of shaky excitement.

He’s wearing boxers underneath, plain black cotton. He shimmies out of them and tries to ignore how shallow his breathing has become as he picks up the panties, so carefully they almost slip out of his hands. There’s a pattern in thicker, darker lace across the front, flowery sort of swirls. He takes two deep breaths before spreading them with his hands and stepping into them, pulling them up past his knees, over his thighs and up to his hips.

He looks utterly ridiculous, legs too muscular and hairy for panties like this, but the sensation of the fabric stretching across his skin has his cock swelling. He almost laughs, hysterical, because they _don’t fit_. The front bulges, the edges not even touching him because he’s half hard, and even if he wasn’t he’s not sure he’d be able to tuck himself in properly. There’s a part of him that almost feels like crying because they don’t look quite right, but he closes his eyes and yanks his jeans back on, holding still for a moment to adjust.

The moment is needed. Another follows it as Enjolras breathes and wills his body to calm the fuck down. The problem is the tightness. The panties are a much, much tighter fit than his boxers – he can already feel a wedgie coming on – and his jeans just make it worse. Or better?

Worse, he forces himself to think. Definitely worse. The feeling of the panties rubbing against his skin is like electricity for that first minute before he gets used to it. Every move he makes reminds him of their presence, and he pulls his shirt off in a daze, hooking the bra around his front and twisting it round the right way before slipping his arms under the straps.

The cups can’t in all honesty be called cups. There’s nothing there to cup, for one thing, and there’s no attempt to do so by the material, which lies completely flat over his chest, his nipples just visible under the black lace. His shirt is still a little warm when he pulls it back on, hiding his shame, and he stays hidden in his room for another full minute before going back out.

Grantaire’s got his feet up on the coffee table, book in his hands. He smirks when he sees Enjolras, but doesn’t say a word. Enjolras holds his tongue as well, and turns away to focus on his tasks for the day. It would be easy if not for the lingerie. The way he cleans isn’t half-hearted. He bends down, gets on his knees, stretches up on his toes, works up a sweat with the constant wiping, dusting, sweeping. Usually he’d enjoy the simplicity of it, the satisfaction of jobs visibly completed, but like this, with lace tight against his body and Grantaire’s eyes and that smirk on his face…

He’s so hot that he’d be working shirtless if he was on his own. But Grantaire would see the bra then, so Enjolras ducks his head and forges on, refusing to cut corners for his own comfort. When he’s out of Grantaire’s sight he has to keep adjusting the pants, trying to spread the scant material so it stops cutting into his skin, letting bits of him bulge out. It’s a hopeless cause, but the discomfort is unbearable.

It’s so humiliating. And with every grin Grantaire gives him, he’s reminded of where this infernal lingerie came from. Grantaire _knows_ he’s wearing it. Grantaire can probably see it peeking over his jeans when he stretches up or bends over, see the outline of the bra under his t-shirt. He knows, and Enjolras knows he knows, but he just sits there and gives Enjolras these looks, dragging his eyes up and down him as though he could eat him up with his eyes alone.

Cleaning is hardly mentally stimulating, and Enjolras’ mind can’t help wandering, imagining Grantaire sneaking up behind him and grabbing him, tearing his clothes off to reveal what he’s wearing underneath. Teasing, ridiculing, tying him up…tying him to the wall, somehow, wrists crossed above his head, ankles held apart so his legs are spread and he’s on display. Grantaire could gag him if he wanted, laugh in his face and…take photos or something, and Enjolras would turn his face away but he’d be held there, helpless and exposed, dressed in this disgraceful lingerie like some sort of…like…

Grantaire starts whistling, something cheery, and Enjolras realises he’s paused midway through disinfecting the hob. It takes a whole second for him to remember he’s wearing clothes over the lingerie, and he finishes the disinfecting as quickly as he can, moving onto the fridge afterwards.

What would Grantaire do if Enjolras went up to him now, looked him in the eye, and asked him to do those things?

Laugh at him.

It’s probably not true, but thinking it has Enjolras steadying himself against the counter all the same, lace shifting over his cock as he hardens (and _fuck_ does that feel amazing). Grantaire would laugh, he allows himself to continue, dizzy, and he would stand up and get a hand in Enjolras’ hair, a tight fistful. Enjolras would be forced to follow if he pulled, pushed to his knees, shoved face-first against the floor…

He opens the fridge and shivers and shivers as the cold washes over him, driving the heat out of him. The momentary respite is a relief, and he starts to clean again, methodical and swift.

He can’t bring himself to ask. The certainty of it brings despair, frustration, Enjolras’ fingers tightening around jars and bottles as he sets them down on the counter harder than necessary. He’s confident enough to address crowds of hundreds, but he can’t ask for this single, simple thing. Perhaps most irritating of all, he doesn’t really understand _why_.

As he’s putting things back in the newly wiped-down fridge, Grantaire comes in. As though everything’s perfectly normal, he steps up behind Enjolras and loops one arm round his waist as he reaches past to get some juice, apparently unaware of how very rigid Enjolras is in his embrace. He drinks, crotch pressed to Enjolras’ backside, and Enjolras desperately tries to breathe normally as Grantaire unscrews the cap one-handed with clever fingers, drinks a few gulps, replaces the cap, and puts it back. His mouth is cold when he kisses Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras shudders, suddenly needing to be in motion. He wriggles against Grantaire’s body without meaning to, and Grantaire laughs, tightening his grip. One hand slides down and palms Enjolras through his jeans. 

“Fidgety.”

It’s the perfect opening, freely given, and Enjolras takes it without a second’s hesitation. “Keep me still then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sex in the next part, promise!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


End file.
